


— ^'^t '-' - ^■l' '*^2l. 





Down beside the Babbling Brooklet, heak the Cow Bells coming Home. 
[Pane 27] 



PECULIAR POEMS 



DANIEL O. LANTZ, 




l0^Mf^^?^ 




CHICAGO: ^^^or w.r< ^^"^^i^ 



D. O. LANTZ & CO., PUBLISHERS. 

1883. 



T< 



U5 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in ttie year 1883, by 

DANIEL 0. LANTZ, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington- 



TO 
MY MOTHER 



PREFACE 



TDECULIAR POEMS were written under peculiar circumstances. At 
almost all hours of the day ; in business and out of business ; amid 
the perplexing peculiarities of the printing office, as well as in the 
quietude of the home circle. If the reader can find an^^thiug in them 
to entertain, amuse or instruct, the author will feel himself doubly repaid 
for the time spent in their production. He has been induced to publish 
these poems in book form by the repeated requests of friends and of 
those who ought to have known better. Yet, however this may be, he has 
determined to enjoy himself, whether the critics enjoy his poems 
or not. 



CONTENTS. 

PECULIAR POEMS. 

PAOB 

The Fighting Schoolmaster^ ----- 13 

Bells we Loved in Childhood, - - - - - 27 

Along the Shore, .-.--. 31 

Maud, the Milkmaid, - - - - - - 33 

Peter, the Plowhoy, ------ 35 

The Gold Leaf Fast Express, - - - - - 39 

Blue Eyed Bess, ...... 43 

The Bidl Dog at the Gate, - - - - - 47 

Our Boats at Sea, ..---. 51 

The Old House by the Lane. - - - - - 53 

Bells of Clyde, ..---- 63 

The New Year, - - - - - - - 65 



PATHETIC POEMS. 

Our Fallen Heroes, ------ 69 

Only a Flower, - - - - - - - 71 

Charlie Ross, ------- 72 

CHllie Bell, ------- 73 

James A. Garfield, ...--- 75 

Th^ Old Year, - - 77 



LLUSTRATIONS. 



PAGK 



"Dot/TC besirlf. the Bahbliny liroolcht. hear the C<m^ Bells coming 

Home" -------- Frontispiece 

The School Botise at Coon Hollow, ------ 15 

"There's the School Hovse, just as you please, sir," . . - 16 

'■'■Look here, Squire, 'taint no use to he puttin us in vv'th a lot o' cattle," 19 

'^He swung them, and raised them, and flung them," - - - 21 

''Then drawing a mammoth Revolver he sent forth a torrent of balls,' 22 

"■You stej), young man, to the Doorway, and, ring the Bell for School," 23 

"■As he stepped to the Desk on the Platform, and opened the School 

with a Prayer," .....-.- 24 

'• Whtn our hearts were ftdl of pain for our little Lou that died," - 29 

Along the Sftore, --------- 32 

"She watches with the restless stars her sailor boy to greet," - - 45 

The Old House by the Lane, ------- 61 



PECULIAR POEMS. 



The Fighting Schoolmaster 



How- He Managed the Scuool at Coon Hollow 



)0 yer want to teach our school, young man ? 

Waal, now you had better climb, 
' For our young bloods would bake your dough 
-A In just two-thirds of time ; 
You're rather too fresh a saplin' 

To tackle such country clowns ; 
Thej^'re a wicked convention, stranger, 

T'le worst in all the towns. 

' They're running this school to distraction — 

A dozen of scape goats or more ; 
They've laid out each brawny built teacher, 

And mopped 'em all over the floor. 
You're built most too sudden and sparing — 

Too much on the infantile plan — 
To cope with these big-fisted bullies. 

Who spill all the blood that they can. 



' No doubt you know all that's expected 

To teach a civilized school. 
But it takes more muscle than larnin' 

To handle an overgrown fool. 
I tell yer, young man, they mean business. 

Boiled down to a pretty fine point, 
And you'll find in the end you'r busted 

In trying to keep things in joint." 



14 PECULIAR POEMS. 



" I came to apply for your school, sir, 

If no one cares to engage ; 
I'll take all the risks and the ruin, 

And manage my part of the stage. 
Don't worry about the fresh sapling, 

Just say what you think j^ou'U do ; 
I'll tend to the teaching and training, 

And worry my own way through. 

" 'Tis true, I am youthful and slender, 

And more like a sapling than oak ; 
But, mind 3'ou, with grit and ambition, 

I think I can teach them a joke. 
And I'll manage the school, if it floors me, 

And teach it for more than a year ; 
I propose to do the commanding, 

And hold things steady and clear. 

" I've heard of your big-fisted warriors, 

How they trample each sensible rule 
And laugh at you fathers for failing 

In trying to keep them in school ; 
It's time your school was in session, 

And time some one managed it, too ; 
And time your rules were respected, 

And scholars obedient and true. 

" On next Monday week I will open 

The school, sir, if you are agreed ; 
I think I can handle your cattle, 

And teach them a gentleman's creed. 
So if 3'Ou will see to the notice, 

And give the stripling a trial, 
Your school will open on Monday 

And run, at least, for a while." 

" There's the school house, just as you please, sir 
I'll have the notices sent ; 
But if you come out with your hair on 
I never shall ask for a cent. 



16 



PECULIAR POEMS. 




But, mark you, young man, at the onset. 
Don't worry us fathers no more ; 

We want you to handle the critters, 
And here is the key to the door." 

The school house wan't much to look at — 

A little, brown-colored concern. 
Cooped up at the foot of the hillside 

Where the road has a three-cornered turn ; 
And scholars like doves to their windows 

Were flocking from street and from lane, 
On Monday, the day of the opening 

Of school in Coon Hollow again. 

Now, many good fathers and mothers 

Had heard of this slender young man, 
And fearing the roughs of the country 

Would soon unsettle his plan, 
Turned out, just to see how the stripling 

Would fare on his first day of rule. 
And help to carry, if need be. 

His mangled remains from the school. 



The school room was crowded with scholars, 
Who scuffled in the usual style, 

Displa3-ing their grit and their muscle. 
But watching the girls all the while. 



THE FIGHTING SCHOOLMASTER. 



A young Board of Trade was in session 
Around a few splint- bottom chairs ; 

A corner was feared in the market, 
And each one was boss of affairs. 

The desk was adorned with a speaker, 

Who managed to make himself heard 
By stamping his foot as a clincher 

To every unprincipled word. 
Young Samuel Smithkins was scraping 

His feet on the seat of some chairs 
When the master entered the sanctum. 

And calmly considered affairs. 

There came a collapse of confusion 

When his form was fully within ; 
The 3'oung Board of Trade was off duty, 

And everything quiet again. 
Young Smithkins was scared into silence, 

The speaker secured a release, 
As the teacher walked into the school room 

And dropped his old leather valise. 

' Only eight ; I am early," he muttered ; 

" Too soon for the school to commence ; 
I guess I will break in the timber, 

And get the right lay of the fence." 
So settling himself for dut}-, 

He kissed the little girls 'round, 
And called them his fairest of fairies, 

Though each one was freckled and browned. 

He spake of their papas as judges. 

And asked if their ma's were as sweet 
As the dear little creatures around him — 

So cunning, so cute and complete. 
And the little girls thought him "just lovely ; " 

While the big girls listened and smiled ; 
Each wished (when he talked so bewitching) 

To goodness that she were a child. 



18 PECULIAR POEMS. 



By this time the school room was flooded 

With scholars quite boisterous again ; 
The big boj-s — the backers and bullies — 

Who lacked just a trifle of brain. 
Yet he scarcely noticed their meanness, 

Though some of it stirred up his ire, 
And kept his blood bubbling and boiling 

As over a furnace of fire. 

There's such a thing known as combustion, 

When men keep their powder too loose 
Things go off, sometimes, in a hurry. 

By taking too much of abuse. 
And so with this 3-outhful instructor — 

He bore it as long as he could, 
Till each nerve, each sinew and muscle 

Was firmer than hickory wood. 

And when, in the heat of their tirade, 

He could stand their racket no more. 
He mounted the low rustic rostrum 

And claimed his right to the floor. 
All ears were turned to the speaker. 

To catch what he might have to say. 
For they feared his feeble endeavors 

Would last but a part of the da}-. 

' I have," said he, opening a paper, 

" A list of a dozen or so. 
Whose main occupation is meanness — 

And meanness remarkably low ; 
Of boys who ought to be models. 

And help the young pupils to climb, 
Instead of creating disturbance. 

And raising a breeze all the time. 

• It is now nine o'clock, to the minute, 
And school in Coon Hollow is in, 

And the very first one that ofTends me - 
I'll straighten out straight as a pin ; 



THE FIGHTING SCHOOLMASTER. 



19 



So if any of you full-blooded fighters 

Are dying to get up a row, 
Just one at a time make it known — 

You shall all have a chance, anyhow." 

Now, some of these bushwhacker bullies 

Were right up and dressed for a spat ; 
Theyd tackle an iron clad Indian, 

And flght at the drop of a hat. 
And the sarcastic words of the> master 

Were more than their natures could shed, 
So up jumped one of the number, 

And this is about what was said : 



mwH 



JS>-h 






, 11 




" Look here, squire, 'taint no use to be puttin' us in with a lot o' cattle 
that haint got no brains, for I want you to understand, sir, that we has, an 
that we don't puppose to be hoodwinked by any of yoa starched city chaps.' 

"That's chowder," came a voice from the crowd ; "that's the kind of' 
hair pins we are." 

" Go in, Gib," another voice shouted ; " he's too fresh for this market. 
he is." 

" Whack it up to him," shouted a third ; " we'll stand by j-our bod^^, 
Gibler." 

" We has busted this school business more'n wonst," the speaker con 
tinned, " and knocked the shins off o' weightier men than you is, so you 
had better shut up your gol blasted preachin' or we'll shut you up — you 
bet we will." 



2iO PECULIAR POEMS. 



As he finished he dropped like a pumpin, 

But not until after he swore ; 
And mising his seat in his hurry, 

He fell co-whack on the floor. 

The school room was quiet as Hades 
As the teacher, with resolute tread, 

Stepped hastily down from the platform, 
And this is about what he said : 

' I expected to manage jo\x scholars 

With kindness, and not with the rult3 
I wanted to preach you and teach you 

The value of love in a school ; 
But it seems you cater to terror, 

And long to be battered and blue ; 
So well open our school with a war whoop, 

And scalp a scholar or two." 

Now, on!}' the Saturday previous 

Some one from over the way 
Had left two dumb-bells of iron, 

And apparently left them to stay ; 
And principally all of the morning 

The boys had been trying their heft — 
To swing these ponderous missiles — 

But every one had got left. 

They had clinched and pinched and twisted. 

Had rubbed their hands and spit ; 
But with all their furious endeavors. 

Not one had swung them a bit. 
Stooping down, like an enraged tiger, 

He lifted them up from the floor 
And placed them with ease on his shoulders. 

And rested a moment or more. 

Then, with the strength of a giant. 
He hoisted them over his head, 

And threw them hither and thither 
As though but a handful of lead : 



THE FIGHTING SCHOOLMASTER. 



21 




He swung them and raised them and flung them, 
And managed them both with such ease, 

And seemed to whirl them and twirl them 
And toss them wherever he'd please. 

Till at last, with the strength of a lion. 

He threw them up mto the air, 
Letting them fall with a vengeance. 

Smashing a bench and a chair. 



Then, hurriedl}' opening the satchel 

And spilling its contents out, 
He proceeded to put on his armor. 

Which made him look savage and stout. 
The armor consisted of dirk-knives. 

Two pistols — one for each side — 
A six-shooting Colt's revolver 

And a belt, unusually wide. 



At the opposite end of the school room, 
Just over Ben Butcher's head, 

He pinned up a target of paper 
With corners covered with red ; 



22 



PECULIAR POEMS. 



Then, stepping back to the platform 
And ordering the scholars still, 

He proceeded to give them a lesson 
Of a different kind of skill. 

Drawing a dirk from its socket, 

He whirled it with terrible force, 
Sticking it into the target, 

But breaking the plastering, of course. 
The scholars were wild with excitement. 

And some of the little girls wept ; 
They clung to the skirts of the elders. 

And close to them timidly crept. 




- ^ -, m 



Then drawing a mammoth revolver, 
He sent forth a torrent of balls 

That shattered the target to atoms 
And started a dozen of squalls. 

The girls grew almost frantic, 
And one little runt of a lad 

Was wringing his hands and shouting 
" By golly, the teacher is mad. 



The teacher is mad as a hornet ; 

The teacher is mad, I say ; 
Whj' don't some of you over- grown fellows 

Git up and take him away ? " 



THE FIGHTING SCU L 31 ASTER. 



23 



But just at that moment the master 
Mounted the platform and said : 
" The scholars will now come to order, 
We will lay aside powder and lead. 

" We shall now trj' the lessons a season 

And all who may wish to learn, 
I shall do my utmost to help them 

In every conceivable turn. 
I shall give all my orders promptly, 

And as promptly I want them obeyed 
No ' ifs ' or ' ands ' in the matter, 

Unless you care to be slayed. 




" Will big Ben Butcher and Broadus, 

Young Willis and Timothy Good, 
Tom Murphy and Hickory Harker 

Now go to the shed for some wood ? 
And Gibler, our ambitious speaker, 

Who thought the young teacher a fool 
You step, .young man, to the doorway, 

And ring the bell for the school." 



Cocking the smoking revolver ; 

Seeing they each failed to start ; 
He leveled it firm at the leader 

And aimed it straight for his heart. 



24 



PECULIAR POEMS. 



My orders are prompt and decisive ; 

I'll handle you rough in a trice ; 
Young men, I always mean business 

And never intend to speak twice." 

They arose like sheep-stealing canines, 

Witli heads bent down to the floor : 
And not one word did they utter 

As they marched, full of fright, to the door. 
The good natured fathers and mothers 

Who had often been snubbed in the face 
By these impudent, coarse-fisted fellows. 

Unfit for a civilized place 

Winked at each other and chuckled, 

As the boys went silently past. 
As to say, " You ambitious young rascals, 

Your whiffletree's straightened at last. ' 
A few gentle words to the scholars 

When the boys came back from the shed, 
Dispelled all their fears and misgivings 

And filled them with courage instead. 




There was pride in his noble bearing, 

And a manly, dignified air, 
As he stepped to the desk on the platform 

And opened the school with a prayer. 



THE FIGHTING SCHOOLMASTER. 



25 



The little neat brown-colored school-house 

Yet stands at the foot of the hill ; 
The lassies and lads of the country 

Are wending their wa>' to it still ; 
But the bushwhacker bullies have vanished, 

They have each learned a lesson since then, 
And each in their various professions 

Are upright, industrious 3'oung men. 

The school is considered the finest 

And best managed school in the land ; 
The teacher is counted a hero, 

And all of his doings are grand ; 
He lives where the smoke of his chimney 

Like wreathes, o'er the playground curls ; 
He is loved by the scholars and parents, 

And married to one of the girls. 




1 




^t^4^3 



Bells we Loved in Childhood, 



cow BELLS. 




WAY in the distant meadow, 

Just over tlie sunset hill, 
Down where the violets blossom 
^ So fragrant and so still, 
The cows are busily grazing 

The young and tender gi-ass, 
While a sound of rustic music 

Leaps forth from bells of brass. 
Colink, colink, colink, cothud — 

Eating, drinking and chewing cud : 
Keeping it up the livelong day — 
. This is what the cow-bells saj'. 



Down beside the babbling brooklet, 

On its banks with moss o'ergrown, 
In the golden hue of sunset, 

Hear the cow-bells coming home ; 
Clinking through the dusky barnyard, 

Round the old, familiar well — 
In the cornfields, in the orchard, 

Everywhere we hear that bell : 
Colink colink, colink, colink, 

Plenty to eat, plenty to drink. 
Keeping it up the livelong day — 

Tliis is what the cow-bells say. 



PECULIAR POEMS. 



There are sweetly chiming church bells, 

Sacred in their mellow tone ; 
There are vesper bells at evening, 

Telling of a day that's flown ; 
There are brazen bells at midnight, 

Ringing out a wild alarm ; 
But the bells we loved in childhood 

Are the cow-bells on the farm : 
Colink, colink, colink, colink — 

Oft in life we hear them clink ; 
Deep in our heart they ring to-day, 

Chasing sorrow and care away. 

Strange we cherish the homely thing, 

Battered, bent, dingy and worn — 
Only a cow-bell hung by a string 

And rang in the early morn ; 
Rang at evening, time again — 

Rang as we crept to the old fireside- 
Rang when our hearts were full of pain 

For our little Lou that died : 
Colink, colink, colink, colink, 

Oft we hear their rustic clink ; 
Deep in our hearts they ring to-day, 

Chasing sorrow and care away. 

We have drifted from our childhood — 

We have wandered far away ; 
We have sought for wealth and comfort, 

Till our locks are turning gray. 
Out upon life's troubled ocean, 

Tossed amid the waves and foam ; 
We still hear a wild commotion — 

' Tis the cow-bells coming home : 
Colink, colink, colink, colink, 

Only in memory they clink — 
Only in dreams we hear again 

The sound of their glad refrain. 




When our Hearts were Fui>r- of pain for our Littf-k Lop that died. 



Along thf: Shore. 




3 RIGHTLY beams the lake of Cora, 
Down beneath the rocky hill ; 
Surging ever, darkened never ; 

Those proud waves are laughing still. 



On the shore, evermore, 

In the sunlight, in the shade ; 
Buried half beneath the sand 

Precious stones and shells are laid. 



On the brin}^ ocean's foam 

Some have sought the world's renown, 
Leaving friends, and wealth and home, 

And in tall ships have gone down. 



Others stand upon the sand, 

Searching long the lone beach o'er ; 
Gathering gems of brilliant hue. 

As they're washed along the shore. 



?>'! 



PECULIAR roKMS. 



80, upon the shore of time, 
We may gather jewels rare ; 

If we only seek the good, 

We can find them everj'where. 

]^ut alas ! how man}- pass 
Heedless by the golden ore 

Scattered all along life's way — 
Precious stones along the shore 




Maud, the Milkmaid. 




iNDER a cow-shed clingy and old 
A maiden sits at twilight hour, 
Dreaming of one who is young and bold 
' J^^ ' Till the milk in the pail gets sour. 
jy 'Tis the brightest dream her life will know ; 
Little maid of the dairy snow. 

Beyond the barn-yard — late, so late ! 

Out in the hazy moonlight air. 
Two forms recline on an open gate, 

And one is Maud, the milk-maid fair. 
Ah, Maud ! I know, I know, I know 

Cupid is queen of the dairy snow ! 

Somebod3's son was seen last night 

Through the lattice and blinds of blue, 

Unusually close to someone's right. 
And someone seemed to like it, too. 

Ah, Maud ! I know, I know, I know 
Somebody's daughter will have to go ! 

They tell it all over town to-day. 

Just how they looked — ^just how they stood — 
For a wedding took place over the way. 

And somebody's daughter has gone for good. 
And the years will come and the years will go 

To the happy maid of the dairy snow. 



Peter, the Plowboy, 



V^MIK ETER, the plowboy, wa'nt so slow— 
A lively lad, I'd have you know ; 
None of your fops, with moustache curls, 
[^ Who dream of nothing but the girls. 



But full of solid common sense, 
And never gave the least offense ; 
As bright a boy as you could find — 
One of the real old-fashioned kind. 

Mabel, a maid of Farmer Grreen, 
A likely lass as e'er was seen. 
Was counted by the neighbors 'round 
As fine a girl as could be found. 

Mabel was like a rose in bloom — 
No getting 'round that, I presume. 
Her nut-brown hair and eyes of gray 
Captured all the boys that way. 



Peter was shy of plumes and curls. 
And courted furrows more than girls ; 
But bright-ej^ed Mabel, prim and slim, 
Was just a mite too much for him. 



36 PECULIAR POEMS. 



Over she went, one summer's morn, 
To his waving field of new-grown corn. 
Just as the sun peeped o'er the hill 
And all the world was bright and still. 

" Whoa haw, haw gee, gee whoa, haw, whoa ! 
What's the matter, I'd like to know 
With neighbor Green — good morning. May ; 
What's the matter across the way ? " 

" Why, Peter," and her eyes went down 
As she spied a rent in her rustic gown, 
And gave her apron several blows — 
To knock the dust off, I suppose. 

" Why, Peter, Pa is sick, you know ; 
It seems so hard to make things go ; 
The cows destroy the corn and hay, 
And sheep keep bothering every day. 

" The nags are always into rows. 
Turned in the barnj^ard with the cows ; 
The pigs keep rooting everything, 
And all our work is back this spring. 

" Pa needs a man, and wishes you. 
Because, he says, you're good and true ; 
I've tried to do the best I can ; 
But papa says he wants a man." 

" Your papa wants a man, so-so ; 
Well, maybe, Mabel, I can go ; 
But you must promise, when you can, 
To always help the hired man." 

Then Mabel shook her nut-brown curls 
And whispered : " Ain't you 'fraid of girls ? 
Why, Peter ! Peter ! now take care ! 
For love is raging everywhere ! 



PETER, THE PL WB Y. 



Over the snow, one winter s daj-, 
Peter the plowboy sailed away ; 
Over the hills, with bliss complete — 
Over the hills to the parsonage street. 

The priest was pleased — the}" always are 
Whene'er they meet a bridal pair ; 
He tied the knot — he said for life — 
And Peter and Mabel were man and wife. 



MORAL. 

The world is fickle at the best ; 
Parsons must live with all the rest : 
And lads must many when they will^ 
Kiss the bride and settle the bill. 



"^^^ 




The Gold Leaf Fast Express, 



^HE Gold Leaf runs her best to-night," 
The engineer replied 
To little bright-eyed Genevieve, 

His only hope and pride. 
" We're half an hour late or so ; 

Old ' Tomahawk ' must climb. 
And run her very highest speed 
To get to Clyde on time." 

The sky grew black with heavy clouds, 

The lightnings streaked the west. 
And birds went sailing swiftly past 

To shelter in their nest. 
To Genevieve, who worried some, 

The night was full of woe ; 
For well she knew the fearful speed 

The train would have to go. 



But big, broad Ben, the engineer, 
With throttle in his grasp 

And Bible hanging near his side 
Within its iron clasp, 



4U PE C UL I A R P E M S. 



Laughed at her fears and counseled her 

To never brood distress ; 
• For God," said he, " is with the man 

Who runs the fast express." 

' For twenty years, and maybe more, 

I've run upon this track, 
And never had a tilt so bad 

But somehow I got back. 
T always keep that book, my child, 

A hanging very near ; 
And then I read it when I can, 

And never, never fear." 

Loud rang the noisy engine bell, 

As orders came to go 
The driving-wheels began to move 

In revolutions slow ; 
A happy child was Genevieve — 

All fear had left her now ; 
For she was sure her papa's God 

Would keep them safe, somehow. 

The heavy train went thundering on 

O'er hills and prairies vast, 
And people all along the road 

Were startled as it passed. 
Some said, 'twas dangerous running 

With all the speed they had ; 
While others loud asserted 

The engineer was mad. 

Some claimed, a white-winged spectre 

Followed the train that night, 
And hovered o'er the engine cab, 

A little to the right, 
And seemed to light the stormy way 

With hands and sword of flame ; 
But no one knew its mission there, 

Or guessed from whence it came. 



THE GOLD LEAF FAST EXPRESIS. 41 



Out in the sleet and darkness ; 

Out in the wind and rain ; 
Out in a night of disaster 

Thundered the midnight train ! 
Smashing, crashing, dashing along ; 

Flashing on with heels of fire ; 
On and on and onward 

Like the lightning on the wire ! 

Hark ! was it the sound of the wind, 

Or the noise of the flying train 
That starts the stalwart man of nen^e 

And makes him look again ? 
No ! 'tis the sound of a river — 

A river deep and wide — 
See ! the massive bridge is swung ! 

Swung to the other side 

Ah ! the signal lights were missing 

On their posts at IMacori, 
And the drunken signal servant 

Let the fast express go by ! 
Shame to moneyed men of millions — 

Men who ought to stop and think ; 
Who will place in such an office 

Those they know will surely drink ! 

Down brakes ! shrieked the whistle, 

Along the river coast ; 
And stalwart men, as quick as thought, 

Were instant at their post ; 
And never a train, with such a load. 

Was shackled with such skill ; 
And never a train, in such a space, 

Came to a dead stand-still. 



What a chasm yawned below them ! 

What a gulf of dread ! 
Strong men shuddered at the sight, 

Then quickly turned their head. 



42 



PECULIAR POEMS. 



Some cheered the faithful engineer 
And loudly spoke his praise, 

And vowed that he should never want, 
The balance of his days. 

But little, bright-eyed Genevieve, 

Not scarcely nine years old, 
Shook back her heavy, hanging hair, 

In ringlets bright as gold, 
And whispered to the brawny man, 

When in his fond caress : 
" God's hand was on the throttle 

Of the Gold Leaf Fast Express.'' 




Blue Eyed Bess, 






fairer form than blue-eyed Bess 

E'er graced the larboard lea ; 

She greets me with a welcome hand 
When I come back from sea. 

Along the shore — the pebbled shore- 
Where waters lave her feet, 

She watches with the restless stars, 
Her sailor bo}' to gi-eet. 

Full many a day, o'er bog and bay. 
With blithesome, winsome Bess, 

1 hie to hills and vie with rills 

Till evening shades grow less ; 
For life is filled with sunlight hue, 

And all seems bright to me 
When roving with my fairy queen 

Along the troubled sea. 

Far out on the fathomless deep 

I some day swift will glide, 
Over roUicksome, rolling waves, 

With Bessie as my bride. 
Then heave ahead, yo ho, boys, ho ! 

Then heave ahead, yo ho ! 
I'm a rover wild on the sea, 

And blue e^'ed Bessie's beau. 




'She Watchks with the Rkstless Stars Her Sailor Boy to Greet." 




Thi: Bulldog at the Gate. 



"PAINT HEART NEVER WON FAIR LADY. 




BUSINESS looking bulldog 

At Deacon Brown's, one day, 
Created a sensation 

By having things his way. 
'Not a young man in that section — 

Not a boy for miles around — 
But detested this 'ere canine. 

This bulldog sure and sound. 



He was shy, and shrewd and ugly, 

And mean as mean could be — 
One of those short-eared critters 

A fellow hates to see. 
He stuck to that front gateway 

Like plaster to a wall ; 
And all around those quarters 

No other dog would crawl. 



The Deacon had a daughter. 
And one 'twas hard to beat — 

A charming little maiden. 

And most uncommon sweet : 



48 PECULIAR POEMS. 



But boys who cared to woo her 
Were slow to try their fate 

With eighty pounds of bulldog 
A watching at the gate. 

Now Hezekiah Rathfon 

Would have sooner lost his hat, 
And twenty more just like it, 

And maybe double that. 
Than tackle such a critter 

Without a little aid ; 
And so he kept his distance 

With others, in the shade. 

He didn't feel quite ready 

To raise much of a breeze. 
And somehow felt uncertain 

Somewhere about the knees. 
Whene'er he thought of Eva, 

Sweet Evalena Brown, 
The Deacon's charming daughter — 

The pride of all the town. 

It might as well be mentioned 

That on the whole it's best 
To always keep supplied with nerve, 

No matter what the test ; 
As girls and time don"t vary, 

And neither of them wait 
For bashful, weak-kneed lovers 

Around the front yard gale. 



There's no bulldog prowling round 

At Deacon Brown's to-day. 
And everything is quiet — 

The bulldog's gone away : 
But Master Harry Carter 

Was there one night till ten, 
And if you'd been a scouting 

You'd caught him there again. 



THE BULLDOG AT THE GATE. 



49 



This Harry is a hero, boys, 

Just multiplied by eight ; 
And don't you ever forget it 

When bulldogged at the gate. 
With love and grit he bravely strode 

Where none dared go before, 
And found this savage canine 
Was iron — nothing more. 

The Deacon said his daughter 

Should wed so brave a lad — 
A boy that want afraid of dogs 

Could earn his bread and shad. 
And now they live upon the hill — ■ 

The finest place in town — 
With this same savage bulldog 

A frowning fiercely down. 




Our Boats at Sea. 




boats went out to sea, 
Upon a mission grand ; 
Two vessels on the deep, 

Went sailina: from the land. 



One laden with its gems 

And weight of golden ore. 

Could scarel}' onward move. 

While pulling from the shore. 

It had no room for aught 

Of love, or friendship true — 

One of the meanest boats 
That ever manned the blue. 



The other little craft 

Was quite a sight to see 
Bounding over billows, 

Unfettered as a bee. 



It had no costly gems ; 

No envied wealth of weight, 
As on it swiftly sped 

With human love as freight. 



52 PEC UL lAR POEMS. 



At night a storm arose, 

And waves began to roll ; 

And lightnings filled the earth, 
And gleamed from pole to pole. 



But o'er the breaking waves 
This little craft was seen, 

Far out upon the deep 

Amid the lightnings gleam. 



While the selfish, costly boat. 
With timbers bright and new, 

Went down beneath the waves 
With gems and fated crew. 



We can never, never know 
The worth of love sublime. 

Until our boats go out to sea — 
The restless sea of time 

Where adverse winds arise. 
And sorrows billows roll ; 

Where envy, hate and scorn 
Will try the troubled soul. 

For ores and glittering gold 
Can never fill the heart ; 

This human boat will never float 
When hope and love depart. 





The Old House by the Lanf 



A. OH[ELISTlv/a:A.S FOEly/t. 




HEW, Sallie ! how fine you look 

In your bran-new city gown ; 
Got to be some pumpkins now, 

Since the old man moved to town. 
Grot some new-fledged notions 

Of the very latest style ; 
Goin' to be a masher, eh, 

And make the fellers bile ? 



•No use a talkin', Sallie, 

You allers were quite pert — 
A dashin' sort of damsel. 

And something of a flirt ; 
But that don't count in make-ups 

Among the general class ; 
You're rated mor'n average — 

I reckon you will pass ! 



"Way dow)» in old Plum Holler 
You used to make things hum, 
A ten din' cows and bosses. 
And makin' butter come ; 



54 PEC UL I A R FOE .\f S . 



And many a meal I've taken 
That want so slow or plain, 

You got up in half a jiff, 

In the old house by the lane. 

" In those days you were nimble — 

Fleet as a yearlin' roe ; 
And when you sat for business 

It always had to go. 
So that old rustic cabin 

Was prim for weeks and weeks, 
And you just kept things bobbin' 

And lookin' out for leaks. 

"But those days all have vanished 

With happy days of yore, 
The sleet and snows of winter 

Now beat upon the floor. 
The roof is black and leaky — 

All ready to decay ; 
The high, old-fashioned chimney 

Is crumbling every day. 

"The stairs are bent and shaky, 

The ceiling's tumbling down ; 
Yet some of this had fallen 

Before we moved to town. 
The kitchen floor is useless 

And almost worn in two, 
And caved in several feet around 

The hole that Dick fell through. 

"The garden gate is hingeless ; 

The walks with grass are grown ; 
The flowers all have withered — 

The ones you called your own. 
And all around is wasting 

For lack of thought and care ; 
There's scarcely one thing as it was - 

There's ruin everywhere. 



THE OLD HOUSE BY THE LANE, 55 



" Last night I stood, in fancy, 

There by the old stairway, 
And listened to the wild winds 

That 'round the cabin play ; 
When up from the old fireplace, 

So warm for many years, 
F'amiliar forms kept rising — 

My eyes grew dim with tears. 

' Kight there, is where we gathered 

The close of every day ; 
There is where we knelt and prayed 

When Minnie passed away. 
There, by the open window, 

We bent beside our dead. 
And kissed the lifeless forehead 

Till stars shone overhead. 



'There we cracked the walnuts. 

And cracked our fingers, too, 
With the sham old useless hammer 

The boys bought of a Jew. 
There, man}' a Christmas evening. 

And New Years, too, for that. 
We stuffed the empty stockings 

And made them full and fat. 

'There is where our Catharine 

With Philip used to fight. 
And speculate on mai'riage 

For half a winter's night ; 
Till one bright eve in autumn 

A breeze began to blow — 
The night he popped the question 

And found it wa'nt no go. 

'I stood it like a Sultan 

In that old, gloomy place. 

Until my Betsy's form arose 
And looked me in the face ; 



56 PECULIAR POEMS. 



Then all of bygone memories 

Of nine and forty years 
Rubhed in upon the old man 

And crowded out the tears. 

"Do'nt talk to me of fashion — 

Of all that's rare and fine ; 
I'd sooner be a hermit 

And chalk another line. 
I take no stock in fix-ups — 

They gall and fret me so — 
Id rather live with grangers 

And have a well-earned row. 

"I'm old and somewhat feeble ; 

1 scarce can get about ; 
I'm no great shakes at labor, 

For ' work and I are out.' 
But I would spend my money — 

If such thing could be done — 
Out in that little cabin 

Where life was first begun. 

"Say, Sallie, don't be vexed with me 

And think the old man weak ; 
For of these things I've often thought. 

And never cared to speak ; 
But when my time has come to go 

And I am freed from pain, 
I wish you'd lay me 'neath the shade 

Of the old house by the lane." 



"The millionaire is childish ; " 

That's what they used to say 
Whene'er he spoke of comfort 

In the old house far away. 
They said his mind was shaky — 

A trifle risky now — 
That it wa'nt no use to reason 

With the miser, anyhow. 



THE OLD HOUSE BY THE LANE. 57 



But Sallie knew far better 

Than all the rest could know, 
What made his mind to wander — 

His steps so very slow. 
She knew, how oft at twilight, 

After the evening prayer, 
He spoke of the old homestead 

And forms that once were there. 

But she kept her daily secret, 

As she managed home affairs. 
And brought down each old relic 

From up three flights of stairs, 
And shipped them to the country — 

To the dear old home again. 
And put them in their places 

In the low house by the lane. 

"It's the snuggest, cutest cottage, 
Beneath the blazing sun ; " 
That's what Sallie told them, 

When asked what she had done. 
"I've got things now to rights again. 
And put on few repairs ; 
I've had a bran-new chimney built 
And straightened up the stairs. 

"I've put new paint upon the wall ; 

Repaired the risky floor. 
And hung the old gi-een curtains up, 

Just as they were before. 
T tell 3^ou the old homestead 

Puts on a different face ; 
There's life and beauty everywhere — 

It's quite another place. 



"What will I do next ? ' say you ? 

Well, this is what I'll do — 
Now things are in the best of shape 
And all the work is through : 



PE C UL lAR FOE M S . 



On Christmas I will manage 
To get him home once more, 

And have old friends and neighbors 
Around him as before. 

' The puddings and the pastries, 

The turkej's and the rice, 
Shall all be served in tip-top shape 

And everything be nice — 
All in apple-pie order, 

If Sallie knows herself; 
Nor shall one thing be missing 

Around that mantle shelf" 



Brightly fires in the cottage gleamed, 

That merry Chrietmas day ; 
Care and trouble had taken wings 

And every heart was gay. 
The quaint, old-fashioned table 

Was spread with dainties rare, 
And each old, time-worn neighbor 

On hand to do his share. 

How happy the old man was ! 

And Sallie was happy, too ; 
Helping him enjoy himself, 

Just as he used to do ; 
Talking of corn and 'taters 

He used to raise on halves ; 
Of the sheep and stubborn porkers, 

And scrubby little calves. 

Of the mammoth mountain melons 

That grew so woundrous fine — 
Of boys that boarded by the day 

Around each well filled vine ; 
Of huskin' bees and parties 

And picnics in the grove ; 
Of cand3'-pulls and nut-cracks 

Around the kitchen stove. 



THE OLD HOUSE BY THE LAXE. 59 



Long, long he sat, rehashing 

His deeds and doings old, 
Around that rustic table 

Till the victuals all got cold. 
But after every tempest 

There comes a quiet spell, 
And the old man seemed to wander 

From those he loved so well. 

He was musing at the splendor 

Of the silent setting sun ; 
The day was slowly fading 

And the twilight had begun ; 
And he seemed like one enraptured 

With the golden, mystic light, 
Away, o'er snow-clad hillsides, 

Fast vanishing from sight. 

How long he watched the shadows 

That were not long to last ; 
Yet they did not dare to rouse him — 

He was dreaming of the past. 
The zephyrs brushed the white locks 

From off his aged head ; 
But they did not wake the dreamer — 

Tlie millionaire was dead. 

All night the screeching sign boards 

Kept up a dismal sound , 
All night the angry wild winds 

Swept o'er the frozen ground ; 
"While just beyond the hillside, 

So bleak, so cold, so bare. 
At home, in his little cottage. 

Was the lifeless millionaire. 



l..i.ji.mri^'3^'JU\ 



i- 



ii-MP 




Bells of Clydl 



WEDDING BELLS. 



',9 

ING, Beautiful Bells! 

Beautiful BeUs of Clyde ! 

Over the hilltops, meadows and bowers ; 

^H'T ^^i Over the prairies, now covered with flowers ; 

' a|f^ Over the hearts that are happy ^o-day ; 

Over the forms in their bridal array. 

Ring, Beautiful Bells ! 

Beautiful Bells of Clyde ! 

Ring, Beautiful Bells ! 

Beautiful Bells of Clyde ! 
Ring out in gladness your notes of good cheer 
Ring in the pleasures of many a year ; 
Ring to the honor of those who have wed ; 
Ring out the message that " Love is not dead." 

Ring, Beautiful Bells ! 

Beautiful Bells of Clyde ! 

Ring, Beautiful Bells ! 

Beautiful Bells of Clj^de ! 
Ring to them peace in sweetest refrain ; 
Ring to them blessings, again and again ; 
Ring to them greetings of music and song ; 
Ring to them health and prosperity long. 

Ring, Beautiful Bells ! 

Beautiful BeUs of Clyde ! 



The New Year, 



THE New Year, glad and free ! 

Fearless, tearless, careless, bold ; 
Light of every home is he — 

Pride of all, the young and old ; 
Everything is filled with life. 

Every heart is full of cheer, 
Every business has its strife 

In the active, glad New Yeai-. 

In the busy halls of trade, 

In the rumbling, rolling mill, 
"Where commercial gains are made 

And the wheels are never still ; 
Into mansions, gi-and and high. 

Into hovels, low and brown. 
Gleams the same light from the sky, 

Comes the New Year's blessing down. 



Bells from every church and tower 

Peal aloud their silvery notes, 
Telling of the New Year's power, 

From their noisy, brazen throats, 
Tell of joy through all the land ; 

Tell of coming days of gold ; 
Tell of peace on every hand ; 

Tell of shepherds in the fold. 



iS PECULTAK POEMS. 



Joyous, jovial, happy year, 

Chasing gloom and doubt away ; 
Bringing light and love and cheer 

Out of darkness into day. 
Glad we hail thy crimson light, 

Hail it with the harp of praise ; 
Hail it by our firesides bright, 

Through the coming endless days 

Like the falling of the dew 

On the withered grass and flower, 
Like the sunshine of the true. 

Into hearts grown old and sour : 
Like an eagle in its flight, 

Over hilltops bright and clear, 
Comes the gentle morning light 

Of the joyous, glad New Year. 



^yi^^ 




PATHETIC POEMS 




Our Fallen Heroes, 



FOR DECORATION DAY. 



^ NCE more we are strewing flowers — 
Beautiful flowers of May — 
O'er our Nation's fallen heroes 
i^f" Who long since passed away ; 
The boys who quietly slumber 

'Neath low mounds, cold and damp — 
The boys of our martyred array, 
Our boys in the silent camp. 



To-day our thoughts are straying, 

As we bow beside our dead. 
And we seem to hear the bugle, 

And our massive army tread, 
We stand again by the ramparts, 

Where death is raging high. 
While the din and smoke of battle 

Rolls up to the blind black sky. 



We hear the soldiers cheering, 

When their wildest charge is made 

We can see them proudly marching 
On their doleful death parade ; 



PATHETI C FOE M S. 



And we catch the shouts of triumph 
On the fields of human gore, 

From the wounded and the dying, 
When the battle strife is o'er. 

Once more we can hear the beating 

Of the mournful muffled drum ; 
Again in their broken columns 

The war-worn comrades come ; 
And we mark the vacant places 

As the troops in sorrow tread, 
Of the brave boys out on furlough — 

Our grand army of the dead. 

Once more we are wreathing flowers 

O'er moldering forms in blue — 
Garlands of lovely flowers, 

That 'round the hearthstone grew ; 
As fresh as the dews of heaven, 

As bright as the noon-day glare, 
Refreshed by many tender tears 

And the breath of a mother's prayer. 

Once more we are strewing flowers — 

Beautiful flowers of Ma}' — 
O'er our Nation's fallen heroes, 

Who long since passed away ; 
The boys who quietly slumber, 

'Neath low mounds, cold and damp — 
The boys of our martyred army, 

Our boys in the silent camp. 



Only a Flower. 



NLY a flower, with light leaves, twirled 

Along the busy street ; 
' Only a flower, crushed and whirled 

Beneath the tramp of feet. 

Only a flower — a fair, frail thing — 
Lost on the wayside high ; 

Only a flower of early spring, 
In beauty left to die. 

Only a flower, fresh and white 
In its mossy bed of green ;. 

That bloomed alone in the lovely light 
Of an August month serene. 

Only a flower drooped and died 
One pleasant summer day, 

In the dark hair of a blushing liride, 
While wedding guests were gay. 

Only a flower wreathed her breast 
Where death had left his dart ; 

Only a flower was laid to rest, 
Above her pulseless heart. 

Only a flower upon her tomb 

Is left to mark the spot ; 
Only a flower o'er us will bloom 

When we shall be forgot. 



Charlie Ross. 



[Christian K. Ross, the father of Charlie Ross, is quoted as saying: "The only 
tidinfirs I have ever received of Charlie since he was stolen was the demand for a ran- 
som of $30,000. If I had paid that I would have had him long before this As it Is I 
have spent feO.OOO, and have not got him. I have examined more than three hundred 
lost children in the search, some of whom had been stolen, but none of them was 
Charlie. Charlie is lost, and the little spark of hope which was kept alive for many 
years is at last extinguished. The little kidnaped boy is mourned as dead "] 




HEN the sunlight's golden glory 

Fades in beauty o'er the plain, 
And the shadows tell their story 

Of the night that soon shall reign 
How we wait, and watch and listen 

For a form so bright and fair — 
Laughing ej-es that fairly glisten, 

Cherry lips, and waving hair. 



0, we miss the merry laughter 

Ringing through the open door ; 
Miss a sweet voice gaily singing. 

We so oft have heard before ; 
And the room is drear and cold — 

Vacant stands his little chair ; 
Grone our child with curls of gold — 

Stolen after morning prayer. 



Weary waiting for his coming, 

We have put our trust in God ; 
While the sands of life are running 

We must bow beneath His rod. 
So the gathering shadows fall. 

And we mourn our boy as dead ; 
So in Fancy's gloomy hall 

We have wreathed his youthful head. 




Crillik Bell, 




HERE the cold, west winds are sighing, 
Sighing through the mournful trees, 

And the wild bird sings her sweetest, 
Floating down upon the breeze ; 

Where the angels watch are keepinjy 
Through the lonely hours of night — 

There our Crillie Bell is sleeping 
In her robes of snowy white. 

Whisper not, 0, dreamy visions, 
That our darling's form is near ; 

Death has robbed us of our loved one — 
We her voice no more can hear. 



Where the many wild birds warble 
In the Greenwood's quiet dell — 

Where the willows wave above her. 
Sweetly sleeps our Crillie Bell. 



FA THE TI C P () EM H . 



Soon beyond the mystic river, 

Where the crystal fountain flows, 

We shall meet our household angel, 
Far away from all life's woes. 

Round the great white thi'one in Heaven, 
Where the blessed millions dwell, 

We shall tread the golden pathway 
With our darling, Crillie Bell. 





James A. Garfield. 



FOR MEMORIAL DAY. 



OT to the silent, sleeping clay, 

At rest in peace this mournful day ; 
Not to the pale and wasted brow 
^ Where dust to dust is mingling now 



Not to the doleful funeral train 

With dirge on dirge of solemn strain 

Turn we our thoughts to him to-day 
Who in his manhood passed away. 



But to the soul that's grand and true — 
To noble deeds he dared to do; 
To loyal acts by day and night, 
To earnest efforts for the right 



To pure, unsullied humble life ; 

To love of home, of child, and wife ; 
To charity in lowest spheres. 

That will not die with coming years. 



76 PATHETIC J'OEMS. 



To hands that led a mother's form 

Through summer's heat and winter's storm, 
And steered our drifting ship of slate 

From reeking rocks and perils great. 

To words of wisdom, words of love ; 

To sacred trust in things above ; 
To Christian fortitude and zeal ; 

To patriotic will of steel, 

Garfield, thy form lies 'neath the sod, 
Thy ransomed soul is with its God ; 

But down the aisles of endless days 

A grateful world will speak thy praise. 

I n every land, in every clime. 

Thy household name will grow sublime ; 
Till over all the earth and sea 

Thy name will blend with liberty. 




The Old Year. 



Ifl INGr the bells proudl}', wardens of Time ! 

Ring the bells softly o'er error and crime ! 

King the bells gently o'er moldering clay ! 
'^C^IToW for the Old year, now passing away. 
^ Ring, for the work of the faithful is done ! 

Ring for a Nation whose honor is won ! 

Ring for the light of Prosperity's dawn ! 

Toll, slowly toll, for the year that is gone ! 



Ring to the millions, the freedmen of Earth ! 
Ring to the gi'eetings of music and mirth ! 
Ring to the lands our farmers have tilled ! 
Ring for the cribs and granaries filled ! 
Ring for the wealth of our mines — not a few ! 
Ring for the happy — the honest — the true ! 
Ring for the hearts that are guileless to-day ! 
Toll for those gone in their weakness astray ! 

Ring, for the sound of the hammer is heard ! 
Ring, for the centre of business is stirred ! 
Ring to the trowel, the plane and the plow ! 
Toll, slowly toll, for the sorrowing now ! 
Ring out the tidings of good-will to men ! 
Ring to America's progi'ess again ! 
Ring, for the threshold of Treason is crossed ! 
Toll, slowly toll, for the cause that is lost ! 

Ring for the prospects that gladden each home ! 
Ring for the bright days that now are to come ! 
Ring for the absence of sorrow and pain ! 
Ring in the pleasures of childhood again ! 
Ring all the wayward ones into the Right ! 
Ring those in error from weakness to might ! 
Ring out all heresies ! Ring in the true ! 
Ring out the dying Year into the New ! 



